


22nd August 2015

by HarrisonHolmes2014



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Beatles Music, Can Eurus Holmes Be Helped?, Dartmoor, Discuss, F/M, Fluff, John is Sherlock's Best Man, Original Hooper-Holmes Child(ren), POV Molly Hooper, Post Season/Series 04, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, S2E2 (The Hounds of Baskerville) References, Sherlock and Molly's Wedding, Twins, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrisonHolmes2014/pseuds/HarrisonHolmes2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation/wrap-up of "Chemical Reactions," "Burned," "Blackbird Singing" and "Pressure Points." The fifth and final story, set one year after The Final Problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	22nd August 2015

**Author's Note:**

> Interested to hear people's takes on Eurus. The end of TFP suggested to me that there was hope for her, and some of Molly's musings on her are actually my own. But maybe I'm overly optimistic. :) Please feel free to discuss in the comments below!

Ten o’clock. Sherlock, Moira, Hamish, Ruby, and I arrive at the little Dartmoor church four hours before the ceremony. Sherlock insisted that we all have ample time to get ready, especially Moira. “It’s her first time being a flower girl. She might need to go over some things,” he said, smiling slightly when Moira frowned and said that she didn’t need practice.

My sister Rachel and her children, Olivia and Jason, stand in front of the tiny stone building, waving energetically as the car pulls up. For the first few minutes it’s all a whirl of greetings, cheek kisses and shy “hello”s from Livvy and Jason when Sherlock wishes them good morning. Rachel bends and kisses the top of the twins' heads as the kids run into the church.

Sherlock, Rachel and I follow them inside. “Oh, isn’t it fantastic?” Rachel asks, her blended London-Devonshire accent more distinctive than ever. The wind catches her wavy red hair, and her brown eyes sparkle. “My little sister Molly, getting married! You know, Sherlock,” she adds, a light of mischief in her eyes, “I thought it would never happen.”

“Neither did I. I thought Molly was far too smart for me,” he says, grinning slightly. I smack both of them lightly on the arms.

“Oh, you two,” I answer, though I can’t help smiling too. “What am I going to do, with you sots both in my life at once?”

“No clue,” Rachel says, beckoning to the kids. They follow us through the chapel and into one of the community rooms, our de facto dressing room. Moira sneaks up and stands on her tiptoes, trying to get a look at Ruby and Hamish, one sleeping contentedly in Sherlock's arms, one in mine.

“Can I hold one of them, Daddy?” she pleads.

“All right. Go sit down,” Sherlock agrees. I transfer Hamish to him; he can somehow hold both twins at once, even when they're squirming. Moira sits on a nearby pew, probably removed from the chapel for a repainting, and Sherlock sits beside her, carefully placing Ruby in her arms. Hamish's blond-brown hair seems to twinkle when the light hits it. Livvy and Jason scramble up onto the pew as well. At seven and five years old, they’re curious about everything.

“They're so _cute!” _Livvy squeals. "Look at Hamish's cute little nose!"__

“Can we wake them and talk to them?” Jason says.

“No. Be quiet.” Although Moira’s the youngest, she's clearly head of this three-child pack: her cousins both fall silent, pouting. Ruby’s arms rustle, and slowly her eyes open. Hamish's do too. Even from this side of the room, I can see the two pairs of bright brown spheres sparkling in the morning light.

Hamish makes a soft whining noise, one that his sister answers. But Moira smiles and hums a few bars of _Moonlight _sonata to them, and instantly the twins quiet. It’s a gift only Moira has, the ability to soothe them in seconds. Her blue-grey eyes gleam with a kind of fierce pride as she looks at her sister and brother. It’s interesting…her expression is reflected in Sherlock’s eyes.__

Knowing Sherlock will keep an eye on the kids, I follow Rachel out to her car. Together we bring in the tuxedo and the dress, which she was kind enough to keep for me. Severus and Khan would’ve clawed them to shreds if we’d kept them at Baker Street. Carefully, we hang the garments from a rack of choir robes. As I requested, the dress is nothing too fancy. It's creamy white satin, reaching a bit lower than the knees, with a simple blue embroidery pattern at the hems.

The only luxurious item I have is a necklace: sterling silver with a long line of sapphires. On either side of the central stone, the other stones gradually grow smaller, giving a pleasant, balanced effect. The center stone is an amethyst, my birthstone. Seeing the outfits suddenly brings the reality of this home to me.

My face must’ve revealed a bit of what I’m thinking. As Rachel leaves to get the kids’ clothes out of her car, Sherlock looks up at me, steadily continuing to rock Hamish slightly. “Nervous?” he asks.

"Not really," I say, forcing my voice to remain calm. "You?"

He shakes his head, making the curls bounce. "No. It's just a visit to church, really, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Moira looks up, her eyes shifting from blue-grey to gold-flecked green in the sunlight. Smiling, she says, "You and Daddy are both really bad at lying, Mummy."  
__________

Half past twelve. Everyone else in the wedding party is here: Greg Lestrade, Rachel and the kids, my uni friends Meena and Julie, Mycroft, John Watson. John got here a bit late: Rosamund put up a fuss about going, apparently, but she was pretty quiet when he arrived. She, Hamish, and Ruby have been shuffled off with Mum, Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Holmes (Violet, Molly, you don’t have to be so formal anymore…).

Rosie's gotten so big now, grown into a strong, curious, and generally cheery toddler. She took her first steps two weeks ago, during a family visit at Baker Street. Moira simply adores her, and treats her as just as much a sibling as Ruby and Hamish. Mary would be so proud, and my heart tugs a little at the thought. I'd asked her to be one of my bridesmaids, and the church feels just a little empty, knowing that she can't be here. But is she really gone?

Sometimes I think she's not...especially when I see how Rosie's blue eyes twinkle with mischief, just like her mum's.

I can hear the groomsmen chattering softly in the room next door, Sherlock and Mycroft's low tones rumbling underneath Greg and John's voices. I grin a bit when I remember how uncomfortable Mycroft looked when he greeted Sherlock this morning, his waistline straining the tuxedo fabric. We thought he'd have to be dragged into being a groomsman; we were short one, and asking Phil Anderson was out of the question (though, out of forgiveness, Sherlock gruffly agreed to invite him and Sally Donovan to the wedding). But to everyone's surprise, Mycroft agreed with no protests at all. I think the Eurus incident mellowed him a bit.

Everything’s pretty much ready. I can hear the pianist, our old neighbor Mr. Russell from Grimpen village, warming up out in the chapel. Rachel, my chief bridesmaid, smiles a bit nervously at me from her seat on the out-of-place pew. Moira’s beaming as she looks up at me in my white dress. There’s no mirror around, so I can only imagine what I look like. The circlet of forget-me-nots and white heather on my head, taking the place of a veil, feels like it’s about to fall off whenever I move.

I can already feel sweat sticking to the back of my dress, feel the weight of the sapphire necklace. God, it’s warm in here, what I wouldn't give to step outside for a few minutes…I mumble something about needing a bit of air and squeeze out of the crowded room, walking alone through the chapel. Mr. Russell turns at the sound of my footsteps and gives me a kind smile before going back to practice.

Gratefully I take a deep breath as I go outside. It’s August, but there’s a cool breeze, left over from last night’s rain. The sweet, fresh smell of the rain-damp moor tingles in my nostrils. I walk into the graveyard behind the church, wanting to see the land where I spent my teenage years again. I haven’t been here since I moved back to London for university, though my parents and Rachel stayed here after our initial move.

Behind the church, the incredible view spreads out before me. Neat patches of emerald farmland ripple like a quilt, and tiny villages where the churches are the tallest buildings lie nestled between the hills. High above the valleys, an invisible line marks the start of the moorlands: rolling slopes of olive, russet, and gold, dotted with wind-bent trees and the occasional sheep. My heart swells as the wind lightly stirs the grass. Dartmoor is the loveliest place I’ve ever laid eyes on, and has remained so, even after the glorious hustle and bustle of London.

“Hello,” a deep voice behind me says suddenly.

I nearly jump out of my skin before realizing it’s Sherlock. He must've slipped out after me from the groomsmen's room. I’ve seen him dressed formally before, but the black tuxedo and corsage, two forget-me-nots, make him look quite sharp. He smiles almost shyly at me as he picks his way through the headstones and stands next to me. "I thought John told you it's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding," I tease.

"Ridiculous superstition. John should know by now that I've never put stock into such things." He slides an arm around my waist, and I place mine across the small of his back. Together we walk among the graves, enjoying the peace and silence. “It’s good to be back,” he says, looking out at the hills. “I haven’t been here since the Baskerville case.”

He nods out at the moor. Far off in the distance, just beyond the towering pile of granite that is Hound Tor, I see the cluster of austere, light beige buildings. To the left lies Dewar’s Hollow: a dark green, sinister blotch of woods. I remember wandering round it one night with my brother and sister when I was sixteen, on a dare from mad Henry Knight. I’ll never forget the cold, dank mist that hung over it even in summer, or the odd noises almost like howling that sometimes drifted across the moor from it. And I remember Sherlock’s stories, of the experiment that nearly drove poor Henry to suicide there… 

“You said that case was the most frightening you’ve ever had,” I say quietly, my eyes on the hollow.

“It was, at least until my sister came along.”  
________________

_My sister. _Eurus Elizabeth Sian Holmes, the East Wind. For now, I let the reference to her pass by, both in conversation and in my mind. “I was surprised when you suggested having the wedding out here,” I confess. “I thought your memories of this place would make you want to stay away.”__

____

Sherlock hesitates before answering. “I will admit I have some unpleasant memories of Dartmoor,” he tells me. “Things I would love to forget.”

I can see his shoulders tensing, and I know what he’s referring to: the night he “saw” Henry’s hound from hell down in the hollow. Even though he now knows it wasn’t real, the memory of the red-eyed, black-furred monster still haunts him. Worse for him than that, I think, is the memory of the fear it inspired in him. A terror he’d never known before, and had hoped to never feel again, he told me.

Obviously, that hope was destroyed that awful day Jim Moriarty’s face appeared on every screen in England. Not to mention the day Eurus took over Sherrinford, spurred on by a beyond-the-grave Jim. Though it's warm out, I shiver slightly at the memory of the things Sherlock told me. The things she'd made him see and do, including that phone call...and the simple, unadorned coffin with my name on it.

Mycroft later said he'd never seen his little brother break completely. Not until he watched Sherlock tear the coffin apart, with no tool but his bare hands.

My logical brain wants to hate Sherlock's sister for the things she did. Not just to him, but to others as well. After all, quite aside from the Sherrinford incident, she killed a child and burned down a house, when she was only a year older than my own oldest daughter. The very thought of it makes me feel sick.

But...her brothers both told me she'd done it out of loneliness. Loneliness and neglect, by the people she wanted most to be close to, had made her what she is. God knows I understand what those things feel like. And Mycroft described her as "able to perceive beyond the normal scope," saying she'd once perfectly described both him and Sherlock as adults. From that, and many other stories, it sounds to me as if she might be psychic. With no one to help her navigate it, with no one to help her understand and control her gifts rather than letting them control her, it's no wonder that poor child went insane.

__Anyway, as far as I can tell, Eurus actually isn't beyond help. Ever since her family began visiting her, she'd shown improvement beyond anything thought possible. She'd gone back into Sherrinford basically catatonic, responding only when Sherlock played the violin for her. Eventually she began to play with him, through the glass. Very slowly, through regular visitations and compassionate interaction from her family, she'd improved. The new psychiatrist's observation list grew longer with each visit: more eye contact. Greater variety of facial expression. Fewer outbursts. Calmly listening, sometimes with nods and head shakes, when her family spoke to her. Once, laughter: not the insane, frightening laughter Sherlock described to me, but something almost human._ _

__And just a month ago, a year after her escape, she started talking again. The first thing she said was to Sherlock: "It's good to see you, big brother." She still spoke very little, and only in short sentences. But the things she said, and her actions, seemed to no longer be manipulative. Sherlock told me that during a visit last week, she'd given him a new Stradivarius violin bow, and a gorgeous silver-and-sapphire necklace, through the trapdoor. "I asked Myc to help me get wedding gifts," she'd said, smiling. No one had told her about the wedding. She didn't say anything else, nor did she probe Sherlock for details in the way she used to. Remembering the story, I can't help my fingers moving to the stones at my throat._ _

__Sherlock notices. "She picked a perfect gift for you," he says quietly. "I still have no idea how she knew blue was our wedding color."__

__I shrug. "She just knows," I say, and Sherlock smiles a little.__

__"Mycroft says the Sherrinford staff are talking about transferring her next year," he says quietly. "They're experimenting with another branch, on another island, where they're taking improved patients from the main compound. It's better: no solitary confinement, windows in the rooms, and sometimes the inmates can walk on the island, with their head keepers and guards. They've had good results with the trial group so far." He pauses. "But only if she keeps getting better."_ _

__I nod. Eurus will never leave Sherrinford, Mycroft made that much clear to us. She's improved, but she'll never be completely safe, or be able to live in a more "normal" institution on the mainland. But her life at Sherrinford can be better, and there's a good chance it will._ _

__Sherlock and I have even discussed bringing me and the kids to meet her, someday. Neither of us is quite ready for that, but I'm not against it if she keeps improving. Anyway, it's not like she doesn't know already. Just after she started talking, she asked Sherlock, "How are your children, and the goddaughter?" She asked after them each time her family visited, and had visibly softened when Sherlock finally told her their names. She'd smiled and repeated it quietly: "Rosie, Moira, Hamish, Ruby." So far, she'd done nothing with that information, and it didn't seem like she even wanted to._ _

__Meeting her would be good for the kids too, I think. We let Mycroft show Moira a recent screenshot of Eurus from a security camera, and Moira was fascinated. Looking at the screenshot, she said, "Is that what I'll look like when I'm grown up?" She wants to meet her "Auntie Eurus," even though we explained about her, about what she'd done. Moira said, "Well, if she's getting better, why shouldn't she meet me? That would be mean. And we shouldn't be mean to her for something that's not really her fault."_ _

__Moira has a point. The love and companionship of family was what Eurus needed most, and what was healing her now that she had it. How different did that make her, really, from any other isolated, lonely person who finally found real love?_ _

__

__And hadn't I seen something like it before? How different was Eurus' story from Sherlock's? From Mycroft's? Or even from my own?__

__Sherlock sighs a bit, breaking my train of thought. “But back to memories," he says. "Yes, I have unpleasant memories of this place. But I have learned not to fear them. Fearing them or resenting them will only let them continue to fester, to wound everyone connected to them. It will only prevent the healing necessary to live. To live, you have to learn not to let memory hold you back."_ _

__"Like we're all learning not to fear or resent Eurus," I say quietly._ _

__"Yes." Another pause. "Besides, Dartmoor was your home. You have a history here too. And perhaps being married out here was what I needed to remind me of something, something about Dartmoor I’d forgotten.”_ _

____

“What’s that?”

“How beautiful it is.” He doesn’t look out at the moor as he says it. He looks directly at me. I can’t help blushing a bit at this, an indirect compliment. But I smile at the same time, a smile that he answers. Together we stand behind the church in a moment of silence, watching the wind stir the heather into gentle lavender waves.  
____________

Quarter after two. I'm standing in the “dressing-room,” waiting for my cue to enter the chapel. The strains of the slow movement of Beethoven’s _Pathetique _sonata flow sweetly and beautifully through the door. The piece seems to slow the mad pounding of my own heart. I can only imagine what the wedding party looked like as it walked out to this music, Sherlock at the head of the groomsmen.__

The sonata movement stops, my cue to enter. The moment the music stops my heart starts up again, beating so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if someone could see my chest moving. Shaking slightly, I take Greg Lestrade’s arm. He agreed to walk me down the aisle and give me away, since I don’t have a dad to do it anymore. Greg smiles encouragingly at me as, in the silence, we walk into the chapel.

I get a confused impression of a mass of colors, oceans of people on both sides of the aisle standing up for my entrance. A smaller group of people stands at the far end of the aisle, a mass of blue satin dresses to the left, a wall of black tuxedos to the right. Sherlock stands to the right-hand side, about five feet from the priest, his wild hair marking him even from this distance. How did the church suddenly become a mile long? I close my eyes for just a moment, willing my knees not to fail me as Greg gently nudges me forward. My heart twinges a little again at Mary's absence from the wedding party, and my eyes water. But I glance over at Rosie, in Mrs. Watson's arms, and I feel better.

As I walk, individual faces swim out of the crowd. Mrs. Hudson, dressed in the purple outfit she wore to John and Mary’s wedding, her eyes glistening as I pass her. Phil and Sally, smiling more honestly at me than I've ever seen them do, and who seem to be holding hands. My mum, in her best green dress, sobbing into a handkerchief with one arm and balancing Hamish against her hip with the other. Violet and Tim Holmes, nodding as if to encourage me, Tim filming the ceremony on a small handheld camera. Ruby’s tuft of dark, curly hair is just visible in Violet’s arms. I notice all of these people before I’ve even taken ten steps. Amazing how fast the brain moves when it’s nervous.

Then something new drifts into my racing mind. Mr. Russell is playing some very familiar notes. Then, a young woman I recognize as Sandy Russell, Mr. Russell's daughter, stands up from the front row and moves in front of a microphone. _But that wasn’t there during rehearsal, _I think wildly, wondering what the hell is going on. Then, all other thoughts are erased from my mind as Sandy begins to sing. A Beatles song…__

_“Something in the way she moves / Attracts me like no other lover.” ___

Shock swoops over me, like a blow to the head. For just a moment I stop walking, frozen in my tracks, making Greg lurch to a halt as well. I don’t remember any of this coming up in discussions about the wedding music. My eyes fall on Sherlock, still at a bit of a distance. But he’s not so far away that I can’t see the grin curving his thin lips, the twinkle of successful mischief in his eyes. As Greg and I start walking again, all I can do is shake my head slowly, my face aching from my smile.

At last, over a note-perfect piano solo, Greg and I reach Sherlock. I release Greg’s arm and he takes his place among the groomsmen, between John and Mycroft. As Sherlock and I face the last five feet of the aisle, I see her. She stands on the bridesmaids’ side next to Livvy, clutching a bouquet of forget-me-nots and white heather, a blue silk ribbon holding her dark curls in place. Moira watches as Sherlock and I walk up the aisle towards her, beaming at us. I give her a smile, hoping she won’t notice that I’ve started crying.

Sherlock, of course, sees. Under cover of the last verse, he leans down and whispers, “I had them change the song after rehearsal yesterday. Did I do something wrong?” he finishes uncertainly, his eyes on my damp cheeks.

I look up at him. My heart feels like a balloon being pumped up with air, and I squeeze his arm. “No,” I manage. “No…you did this exactly right.”  
____________

Three a.m., 23rd August, 2015. The last twelve hours are all a mad, happy blur in my mind. Moira running out to me and Sherlock after the ceremony and hugging both of our legs at the same time, nearly making us topple over. John’s best man speech, rivaling the one Sherlock made for him in its brutal honesty, hilarity, and heartfelt affection. Me dropping my first bite of wedding cake all over Sherlock’s tuxedo, and him roaring with laughter. The way the room spiraled and throbbed with the sounds of Ireland: the _bhodran _drum's joyous thunder, the ecstatic cries of the pipes mingling with those of Sherlock's violin. And Mycroft in the corner, filming it all to show Eurus in a month or two, if she's still moving toward the straight-and-narrow. I told him she will be, if her family keeps showing they love her just the way she is, and that made him smile.__

I’ve always heard the wedding night is…highly eventful. But as if by agreement, neither Sherlock nor I make a move on each other. Tomorrow we have to drive back to London and catch a flight to Spain for a “week-long holiday,” as he put it, so we need to rest. Moira, Hamish, and Ruby have already been sent off with Violet and Tim, who bravely volunteered to oversee any experiments Moira might try while we’re gone. I can’t help smiling a bit, remembering Moira’s promise to help take care of her brother and sister, and the way Sherlock kissed our children's foreheads.

Apparently working out that I’m thinking about him, Sherlock edges closer to me. One arm comes over my side, and his hand finds mine. It’ll take some getting used to, the addition of the gold ring to the familiar hand, but I like it. His lips brush my neck lightly, and though I know we’re both too exhausted to go any further than that, it still sends a little shiver of pleasure down my spine. “I’m looking forward to having some more of that,” I mumble, already half asleep.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he answers, a laugh just barely concealed in his words.

There’s a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of the wind in the heather outside and the singing violin's echoes in my head. I close my eyes, ready to give in to some much-needed sleep. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” I tell him.

I feel him kiss my cheek and settle in beside me. Just before I drift into sleep, I hear a whisper barely louder than the wind, a faint note of pride in it: “Goodnight, Dr. Holmes.”


End file.
